Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
"He knew his way around the branch office so well because his father used to work there", Winston told the others as helpers were freeing the boy from the pile of rubble, reading from his smart phone. The child's last name had sounded familiar to him, he had remembered stumbling over it in the course of his research and had accessed the branch office's personnel files that were saved online, in the Marshall Pucci Foundation's central data base.
"The father died of cholera last year. The Foundation offered sending him to a boarding school but the boy didn't want to part with his remaining family. More importantly, probably, was the fact that the mother and aunt insisted they needed him as a breadwinner and tried to bargain with the Foundation representatives – against a monthly payment they'd let him go. A total no go with the Foundation." Winston sighed. He had encountered that type of family members back at home many times during his cop years. Mothers who told their teenage sons time and time again with the father absent THEY had to be "the man" in the house and insisted it was their duty to somehow support the family – with no interest whatsoever in the child's future. It usually ended with another underage drug dealer in the holding cell.
Ash, eyes still trained on the boy, unconsciously started stroking his right forearm, where he was sporting some ugly scratches.
"Come on, let's patch you up", Chance told his son and led him away.
… … …
"What will happen to the boy now?", Ash asked as his father sat him down in the branch office's bigger bathroom reserved for foreign visitors.
"He'll get punished." Chance spread out the rather sophisticated first aid equipment they had brought over from the States.
"That's just not right." Ash removed his shirt and for the first time his father got a closer look at the damage the fall had done to his child's body. He'd be horribly bruised tomorrow, not to mention numerous cuts and scratches of varying depth and lengths.
"This one will need stitches", Chance said, indicating a huge gash across Ash's brand new tattoo. "I'll clean you up but leave the needle part to Guerrero. He's better with needles than I am."
Ash nodded, putting up a brave face, but Chance had seen him swallow drily. Trying to take his child's mind off the pain inevitably to set in soon, he picked up the issue of the boy again. "Why do you think it's not right to punish him?"
"He's extremely clever. At that age he already knows not only how to crack a safe but also how to close it again without leaving a trace. That's damn good."
Chance raised an eyebrow. "So cleverness exempts you from punishment?"
"He should be given a chance to make better use of his skills. Punishment doesn't help anyone." Ash hissed as his father started disinfecting the more superficial scratches. The deep one would have to wait till Guerrero was present, otherwise he'd have to go through the procedure twice.
Inwardly, Chance agreed with his son. It was why he hadn't gone to the police and turned himself in after Katherine's death. What good would he have been to anyone as a death row inmate? Not to mention that as much as he wanted redemption for the things he had done, he was quite attached to his ass. Now that he knew about Ash's existence more than ever.
But he could hardly tell Ash that he was agreeing with them, could he? He wanted his son to stay away from trouble in the first place, not atone for something in the aftermath. Tricky stuff, this whole parenting thing…
"He had no choice", Ash continued. "Look around you, Dad. This is hell on earth. These people have got NOTHING. What was he supposed to do, starve because stealing is wrong?"
"A few years from now he'll start robbing people to make ends meet. And one day, whether he initially wants it or not, he'll start killing people to get what he wants. Crime has a way of pulling you deeper and deeper into the darkness. You think you can control it, but in truth it's an unstoppable downslide, till you hit rock bottom." Chance moved on to the big gash and started dabbing it with hydrogen peroxide.
Ash recognized a familiar tone in his father's voice. He had spoken like that before, back in the car, when he had driven him home after the ice skating competition… he and his mother… they had told him about what his mom had called "the hardest part"… keeping on living with the mistakes you've made and the knowledge that some things were irremediable… Back then he had felt his parents knew exactly what they were talking about but hadn't dared asking… maybe now was the moment…
"Are you speaking from experience?"
Chance had known the question would come one day, had even vaguely felt it would be posed sometime during this mission… Ilsa had probably hoped it would… she kept telling him that one day Ash would definitely find out. Depending on the circumstances this could create a catastrophic rift between them. He needed to tell him the truth himself, as soon as possible, to contain any major repercussions.
While in theory he agreed with her, right now, at this very moment, with his son looking at him through Juliet's blue eyes… he just couldn't bring himself to do it.
Never in his life had he been a coward, but at that particular split second in time he was engulfed by a never before felt wave of fear, washing over him like a tsunami wave, grabbing his stomach and squeezing it with an iron fist, knocking all breath out of his lungs.
"As a bodyguard… while I was working for somebody else… I sometimes protected the wrong people… with the wrong means… because back then I felt I had no choice", Chance finally managed to reply, all but choking on his words.
"That's why you're doing so many pro bono cases now?", Ash asked. "To make up for what you did in the past?"
Chance nodded, feeling completely devastated. Luckily Guerrero chose this moment to appear in the bathroom door, surgery field kit in his hand.
"I heard someone needs stitches around here?"
"I'll leave you two alone", Chance said and quickly got up. "There's still some wrapping up to be done and we need to arrange transportation back…" Heart beating in his chest as if he had just fought the final round of the Christof tournament again, he practically fled the room. With the difference that he had just suffered a crushing defeat… at his own hands.
"Don't worry about damage to your pretty tattoo, dude. It'll be a very thin scar, Helen might notice it from up close, but for the normal onlooker it'll be invisible in between all that black", Guerrero smirked, getting the needle ready. "You need a pain killer?"
"Just do it." Ash tried concentrating on breathing evenly. In his head he was still mulling Chance's words over. Something wasn't right about what he had said, but he couldn't quite lay a finger on it.
"When your father was your age he used adrenalin and pain as an outlet when he felt he couldn't deal with any given inner turmoil… jumped through windows, fought four guys at the same time, went down stairs on a skateboard… is that what you're doing now? Is that why you got the tattoo?"
Ash angrily bit his lip. He was no emo, cutting his wrist to watch himself bleed because he found it "calming". "Mom painted a Maori picture when she was my age. I wanted to feel connected to her."
"You're forgetting whom you're talking to, dude…" Guerrero started stitching. "Lying to me is definitely not cool."
Ash knew this could hurt a lot more, back in Russia when they had stitched up the gash on his elbow he had received while playing ice hockey the nurse had still been learning the art of sewing a wound shut… oh, his mom had been angry… she had put the fear of God into the responsible doctor… Guerrero was not deliberately trying to cause him pain, but needle and thread going through his skin still wasn't exactly a comfortable feeling. Ash flinched.
"This is not simply about remembering your mom…" Guerrero just then continued. "Those patterns speak of anger and hatred, dude. You got the tattoo to show your wrath to the world. And your thirst for revenge. It's a reminder to you and everyone else that you'll never forget the way she died and that you want someone to… pay for it."
The brief second Guerrero let pass before finishing his sentence made very clear what he actually meant by "paying". Ash sure as hell knew what he was talking about.
"And that would be a bad thing because…?" the boy said, sudden annoyance wiping the uncomfortableness of the stitching process from his mind.
"Cause what you do to others in the end always has worse consequences than what others do to you. You hurt others, it leaves a mark on you forever. There's no going back, once the line is crossed, it's crossed. Killing someone doesn't make anything better. Revenge is wrong. Stay the hell away from it."
Ash lowered his head, not sure whether to be ashamed or to be angry. Guerrero had pinpointed quite exactly what was going through his mind right now… what he had been thinking about ever since his mother had died. At first it had been just a vague, fleeting idea. He had tried shooing it away, he had really tried. His father repeated "nobody deserves to die" on pretty much a daily basis, of course that had left a mark on him. But no matter how hard he tried, the idea grew, became more detailed, he started imagining what he would do with the raccoon man… to make him pay…
His grandfather had understood. That Guerrero on the other hand, Guerrero, whom Ash had always perceived as a man who didn't only know about violence but also actively used it, so strongly warned him against taking physical action to punish his mother's murderer was… disappointing... and also humiliating… Guerrero's words made him feel as if he was a stupid child, carried away by emotion, not thinking clearly. Dreaming of gloriously descending on the raccoon man like a Quentin Tarantino style avenging angel.
Yeah. Go screw yourself, Guerrero.
Or maybe he really was a stupid child.
Maybe Guerrero was right in giving him a reality check.
His father and Winston greatly respected Guerrero's opinion. When he cautioned against a certain plan, it was likely to be changed. He had seen his father get angry about a job gone south and Guerrero being the only one to set him straight again.
Just like he had done with him right now.
Ash sighed. Maybe he should just take this blow to his self-esteem and accept Guerrero's lesson in real life vs. Hollywood action movie.
Guerrero's cell phone signaled. Ilsa's jet would be ready in a few hours.
So adieu, Haiti, it would be.
But Ash had one request first. His father was nowhere to be found and Guerrero mumbled something about needing a drink, so he asked Winston to take him to the little boy's home and Winston agreed. Riding in the branch office's car they headed towards the crowded camp where the child lived.
"If there was anything I needed to know… about Dad or mom… about the way she died… you would tell me Winston, wouldn't you?", Ash suddenly asked. Chance's words were still reverberating in his mind… and Guerrero's odd warning against violence… it all made sense, yeah, somewhat, but he needed to be sure…
"Of course I would", Winston replied after a short pause.
He must have been lost in thought, Ash figured. The poverty stricken environment, all those houses still displaying earthquake damage, the street kids everywhere… no surprise Winston didn't answer at once.
Ash released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. Winston was everyone's corner man… a bastion of calm… He minced no words and was never afraid giving you the blunt truth… if he said he'd be honest with him, there was no need to worry. No need to worry about the weapons his mother had hidden… or the dark past his father kept referring to… and he better stopped tormenting himself with plans of revenge.